Tastes like honey
by MiniEllipsis
Summary: Sirius is becoming less and less human in Azkaban — but Padfoot has nothing to do with it.


**QLFC, round 13, Montrose Magpies Seeker**  
 **Dementor: Write about someone who takes pleasure in others' downfall.**  
 **word count: 1173**

 **Many thanks to Emiliya Wolfe for beta'ing :)**

* * *

This time, it's not James, but Lily — merciful, kind-hearted Lily — who comes to him, her feet, hidden by the long white dress, not making a sound on the damp stone floor of his cell. Her bright red hair stands out in the darkness, like a flame bringing light and warmth.

Sirius, on his straw bed, recoils ever so slightly at first, merging with the shadows as much as he can, and vaguely feels like a vampire in doing so, escaping the light. He's both ashamed and furious that innocent, perfect Lily's been allowed into Azkaban.

She reaches out. "Come," is all she says. Her voice is soft, her eyes wet. Then, she clears her throat and moves closer. "Give me your hand."

Sirius swallows hard and tentatively reaches out. His hand is trembling.

She smiles —

— before disappearing into thin air, washed away by a rogue wave, let in by the small window a few meters above Sirius' head. He jumps to his feet only to drop to his knees near the big, salty puddle. His hand hovers over it, caresses it, as an ice sheet covers it with a grim _crack_. Sirius shudders; he knows who — or rather what — is coming.

He can faintly hear some smug laughs echoing in the distance, but — _cold, so cold, everything aches. Make it stop! Please, p-please… I'm s-sorry_ — he can't focus on anything else but his freezing bones.

As he hugs his knees closer to his chest in a vain attempt to prevent some residual body heat to leave him and make himself a smaller target, he thinks that he should have known better. It wasn't the first time it happened, and it wouldn't be the last. Each time, James or Lily would appear to him, and he would look up at them, which is only fitting, he deems, angels as they are.

Sirius presses his back further against the wall, unforgiving stones scratching him with each shiver, the pain helping him stay grounded.

 _Just a little more, just a little more, and they'll move over._

Sirius feels something deep inside him twirl and twist, a compass going haywire. It doesn't feel right, and yet he can't undo it, can't wrap his mind around it. He just knows he'll find it not only relieving but comforting when the Dementors will move on to the next cell.

 _It's only natural_ , he tells himself. _Nothing to worry about._

* * *

It's nothing he understands. It isn't his childish need to prove himself better than the Slytherins, be it by flying higher or watching them fall lower. This is something subtler, creepier. He doesn't like it, but he can't seem to shake it off.

It's too tempting, addictive even.

Each time the Dementors leave him, he heads towards the door of his cell. He's not willing to risk anyone seeing Padfoot when he steps out of the safety of the shadows and into the dim light coming from the hallway, so he transforms back into his human form — what's left of it — but still crawls. He's too shaky to stand on his legs, but that's okay; he doesn't feel much like a human anyway. Then, not moving a muscle and keeping his breath as soft as possible, he leans against the cold bars of his cell door and listens.

Pleas, wails, cries. Grinding bones and rattling teeth. Thanks to his heightened senses, he hears it all, while his inner Padfoot — his very much canine side — sniffs the air excitedly, as if nosing the kill. Blood and fear reach his flared nostrils. Self-satisfaction creeps up on him when a Death-Eater whose voice he recognizes screams louder than the other prisoners, and disappointment fills him when he can't hear his _dear_ cousin.

 _It's natural_ , he had once told himself, in need of reassurance. Now he thinks better of it — it's feral.

It makes Sirius feel… fine. And he hates himself for it. And most of all, he hates that he sees it mirrored in the eyes of the Aurors whenever they do their rounds.

Fangs, fur, claws. That's all he can see.

Just the most primal instinct the humans feel when they see someone else succumb to the strongest — that secret pleasure to be safe while the victim in the game suffers.

They, and he, crave for even crumbs of this twisted happiness, bites of sweet bitterness.

It's a dark pleasure, to be consumed in secret.

Cowardice? No, Sirius is sure it can't be.

Cruelty? Partly. Most likely.

Sirius collapses into himself when the realization hits him, hard. It's no wonder he's here, then. Little, precious Harry doesn't need his bad influence, doesn't need a wild animal as godfather.

Maybe the signs have always been there, now that he thinks of it. All of his pranks, jokes… Every time his parents fought, or his brother was grounded... It wasn't poetic justice as he had liked to think. Nothing poetic here, in this black, nameless instinct that tastes like honey and makes his heart rot.

 _How about 'struggle for survival'?_ asks a fond voice in his mind, James' voice. _No shame in that_.

Prongs has always been the only one who truly understands him. _Understood, understands,_ Sirius is not sure about the tense. His mind is overwhelmed, but one thing is certain: James has always loved him too much. Warmth starts spreading in Sirius' chest at the thought, but he doesn't deserve it. Shaking his head, he bites his lip, drawing blood. There's no James, there's no Lily. He won't fall for it again just to become the laughing stock of some frustrated guards. Oh, how they must enjoy him talking to himself, unjustified hope filling his raspy voice!

He's never wondered how it feels to be on duty in Azkaban, but he's begun to understand, wishing he didn't. Some are here out of duty, but others must have chosen this for mere pleasure. For the desire to impose their rules.

He's often overheard their conversation without attaching much importance to it, but the tone was always the same and unmistakable — triumph. _Because justice is served_ , he'd think.

"The snake's in the cage," one of the Aurors once said as she passed by Sirius' cell, a spring in her step.

"Is he? Where did they catch him?" A morbid fascination colored her partner's question; his bottomless pupils were glowing.

Now, Sirius knows why, has been learning.

Each time he hears the guards' steps get closer, he just holds his breath and wishes, _wishes_ —

— for one of them to stumble and fall. It's like an opaque veil has descended on his conscience. Inside him, Padfoot rises and barks in approval as they both get ready for it. Given the darkness wrapping up the place and the ice on the floor, it's bound to happen.

Good things come to those who wait, and Sirius has long years in front of him — he can take his time.


End file.
